


Left to His Own Devices

by Couldbeamidget



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clueless Sherlock, Depression, Gen, Guilty Conscience, Low Self-Esteem, Mycroft Feels, POV Greg Lestrade, POV John Watson, POV Mrs. Hudson, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Passive to active suicidal ideation, feeling invisible, not sure where this is going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:09:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/Couldbeamidget
Summary: Meet John Watson: Golden-Haired Retriever of phones, Mr. Kettle On To Boil; guileless physician; side-kick - AKA groupie - AKA mindless minionAKA fucking loser.
Relationships: Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have writer's block. This is my attempt to snap me out of it. I am not editing, re-writing, or any other thing that prevents me from posting more than once every three months. I'm writing it today and throwing it out there. I hope that at least one of you found it worthy to read until the end.
> 
> And, oh yeah. None of theses characters, plot designs, etc. are my own. BBC Sherlock Holmes and Arthur Conan Doyle have undisputed ownership of the characters and story line.

_John Watson came back to London out of habit rather than hope. Really, where else was he to go? He was estranged from his parents, and oi - don't even ask about his sister. Harry's a sore subject, if there ever was one. He felt as useless as a chocolate teapot, with no clear line of employment in sight. No funding meant no flat, no meeting co-workers at the pub, no new friends, no future girlfriends; hell, no food. Life as it was then seemed bleak indeed. Nothing, literally nothing, ever happened to him. And then, it did._

_John Watson bumped into Mike Stanford at the park. John Watson was introduced to Sherlock Holmes. The rest, as people like to say, is history._

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

**John**

There's no sense in the notion, but London Proper feels more perilous than war-torn Kandahar. The risks are dissimilar, incomparable, really. So, why living in London is like leaning over a precipice, I can't fathom. I'm a pessimist by nature, life's vagaries an undesirable feature. Life with Sherlock Holmes is the slippery slope leading to said precipice. One day, sooner than later, my mad flatmate will find me tedious. He'll swan off to new adventures in more impressive cities, seek out criminal intrigue in other countries. If, no - when it happens, I'll fall down deep into that precipice. I'll fall and fall and keep falling. I'll plunge down 'til I reach the darkest pits of Hell. I wait for it to happen. It's my future. Considering today's catastrophic events, perhaps that future is now.

**Mrs. Hudson**

I was thrilled when Sherlock brought home his nice young man. John is such a dear. He's an old soul with a good heart and good intentions. He's done right by my boy. I wish I could say the reverse. Having Sherlock as my tenant has offered me the opportunity to play mother in other ways than serving high tea. He also has a good heart, which is why I love him like a son. One has to look harder, though, to spy it. Sherlock can be selfish, often callously indifferent to people's needs. He has a sharp tongue and even sharper wit. My boy can be a royal arse at times; today, for example. On these unfortunate occasions, I worry for that nice young man. Invalided or no, John's a soldier. He stands ramrod straight, shoulders squared, chin up; ever vigilant in his quest to keep Sherlock safe. Underneath that hard exterior the doctor's soft and sweet as Walker's Toffee.

Privately, I'm very worried. This time Sherlock may have pushed his friend too far. Poor John, he's so terribly pale. He's barely said a word since they've returned. Mrs. Turner (curse that harpy and her ridiculous crosswords) rang me up. She lovers to sound clever, that one. Well, gist of her report was that Sherlock's lover looked despondent and desolate. Naturally, she inquired if the couple was having a domestic. I so wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but I rely on her rent to cover my car payment.

I plan on burning her thesaurus when she's next off to Brighton. Sherlock immediately deduced my project. He's such a love, kindly offering me the use of his finest lock picks. The silly man, deleting my ownership of the building. I've 5 duplicate keys made special for 221B.

**John**

I had another nightmare last night, the fourth this week. Two of them occurred in one night. It's an unhappy fact I've suffered the wretched things my whole life. My first memory of my mother's scolding me for my screaming was when I'd just turned four. Allegedly, I possessed both an over-active imagination and a melancholic, half-empty personality. Yes. I was four. In addition, it would be everyone's, particularly the landlord's benefit, to hold my snivelling down to a minimum. Moreover, I should stop thinking so much. My mother, believing it clever, finished off by singing "...always look on the bright side of life". Thank God the woman never learned to whistle. So, ta very much, Mum (and by proxy, Monty Python), for the supremely useless suggestion. If there'd ever been a "bright side" to my family, which I highly suspect there wasn't, it vanished the second my ball bag of a da took a second wife. He apparently forgot he still had a first one.

Harry sussed out his later doings the same year she started drinking. If anyone at all is interested...Harry and I have three half-brothers. The youngest, charmingly enough, is fighting first-degree murder charges and pleading for of acquittal based on his lack of proper parenting.

Right.

Sherlock believes I dream only of Afghanistan, of bloody torn-up bodies, and missing limbs. Yes, fine. I admit it, I have a text-book case of PTSD. It's a nasty condition, a parting gift of my enlistment overseas. He's wrong at that, wrong about these recent nightmares. I _used_ to dream of war, dreadful gruesome snapshots of destruction. Not now. New horrors have come to pass; fresh fodder plaguing my amygdala until I scream and wail and howl and cry deep into my flattened pillow. It's obvious (even to me), that my fellow tenants hear my nightly carrying's on. I'm terribly ashamed. A grown man red-faced and weeping makes is indeed a sorry sight. I've avoid the other tenants whenever possible. I'd rather not be subject to their pity.

My mad genius of a flatmate, bless him, pretends I'm fine. It's nice of Sherlock, playing at normal. Or, not. Perhaps he can't be arsed to care that I'm in pain. Either way, it's fine. 

I've aged ten years in the last four. I've horrid, loose skin pooling under my eyes. I'm less human than basset hound.

**Mycroft**

Ah, brother mine, you're playing a tenuous game of chance. Surely, despite a limited intellect, you've deduced the damage you've incurred on your flatmate? Pardon the crassness of my statement, but Sherlock William Scott Holmes, get your bloody head out of your arse! You're going to lose him, one way or another. He's a goldfish, Sherlock, albeit a uniquely hardy one. Goldfish, as you are well aware, are fragile and easily damaged. Precipitate few more shocks to his system and you'll be holding memorial services above 221B's toilet.

Trust me, little brother. Please. I know that of which I speak, sadly and in intimate detail.


	2. Chapter 2

**John**

I'm no saint. I'm prone to stewing over petty grievances. I hold a grudge. I once shared heated words with a chip-and-PIN machine. Well, I say shared...point being, I have a wicked temper, and here's a perfect example: three weeks ago I punched Sherlock in the face. In my defence, it was done by request. I initially refused, mostly because I was confused. Naturally, the git being who he is, he went ahead and poked the bear. Sherlock hit me hard enough for it to hurt but not cause injury. In return, though, I laid him out. I was _so_ angry, worse than angry. I felt swept away by rage, a senseless fury. There's something seriously wrong with me.

When the slightly dazed detective stumbled to his feet, did I stand down and assess Sherlock for signs of concussion? No. No, instead, I put my best friend in a headlock and squeezed until his face went all purple. It was an unconscionable response to a simple request. I split Sherlock's skin with my fist. I made him bleed. I restricted the man's oxygen for over sixty seconds. 

Is this PTSD talking, or was I born ill-equipped to cope with life? I don't know. I'm not a genius. I'm not especially clever compared to your average bloke. I examine a shoe and see a bloody big shoe. Sherlock examines a shoe and solves a cold-case murder. I'm not sure if accompanying Sherlock on his cases is a benefit or a detriment, a distraction. I just don't know. I asked His Nibs himself, after the case with Irene Adler, once I'd imbibed some liquid courage. Sherlock wouldn't tell me, one way or the other. He smiled a little, smirked really, then played violin hours on end for _three days straight._ He never said a single word.

**Mrs. Hudson**

Sherlock claims I worry overmuch about their well-being. I think not. Sherlock cares for himself. John cares for Sherlock. Who would care for John if I didn't take up the charge? 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...short and disturbing.

**John**

Soo Lin has haunted my dreams every damn night since she was hunted down and murdered like a dog. I see her in my minds eye tending to her tea pots. She pours thick clotted blood over one top of one vessel, filling cups set in a row. These visions plague me and I despair my need for sleep. I close my eyes and I see her lovely fearful face. I fight to stay awake and still I see her nonetheless. Soo Lin is delicate as bone china. I could have, should have kept her safe. Sherlock and I have an understanding. He doesn't voice the fact; and for myself, I carry on as usual. I brought my weapon. I am a veteran. I failed Soo Lin despite these truths because I wasn't sodding clever enough. I fell for her brother's simple, clumsy ruse. I went running in search of Sherlock like a puppy after its master. I could have saved her, I _should_ have saved her. 

Each nightmare begins with tea but ends differently. Soo Lin is shot in the forehead at close range. The wound is a neat, perfect crimson circle. I hate how it reminds me of a bindi. Or, she dies swimming in her own blood from a belly wound glistening with ropes of exposed bowel. Soo Lin's garroted. A line of piano wire is looped fast against throat, tongue and eyes bulging.

Broken neck. Weeping skull fractures. Green foam and strings of spittle oozing slowly from parted lips. Petechiae mottling her eyes, face and neck. 

Shit. I should have listened to my uncle and become a barrister.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For no apparent reason, I wrote using a ridiculous amount of alliteration. Don't know why, don't really care, just pointing it out (lol). As I tried to say before, this is an attempt at beating writer's block. These posts are stupidly short, noticeably shorter than my archetypal 1K chapters. I am trying something new. I'm clicking "post" when I pause typing because I need to think. I'm neither editing or checking for plot continuity. 
> 
> It's an experiment. Sorry, dear readers, if it's shit.

**Mycroft**

My brother would serve as an excellent candidate for a study examining genetics verses outward environment. Admittedly, so would I. We were considered odd from birth, even then eschewing British norms and social mores; by instinct, not inclination. Our gross cerebral amour-propre appears ingrained. Mummy shares our attitudinal bearing, but Father does not. We're her, and Mummy's us - despite her inexplicable fancy for patterned gowns. 

**John**

John. My name is John. _John._ It's a simple name, one syllable, and easy to enunciate. _John Watson._ It's not a brain teaser, that. Dr. John Watson. Captain John Watson. Unambiguous. So why in effing bloody hell does everyone I speak with instantly forget it? More's like, delete myself in total, forgetting me as well as my Christian designation. I'll say it, if only to myself, that it's humiliating to be invisible. I fall neatly into step behind my flatmate, furtive as his shadow. I'm Sherlock's plain-faced _(boring)_ adoring lackey. I should take umbrage for such blatant disrespect, for Molly's fruitless preoccupation. I should be bothered. Instead, I really can't be arsed to care anymore. Caring takes too much energy, pride of which I lack. Sherlock aims his hyper-focused intellect on only three distinct things: One - murderers, thieves, or people of general criminal interest; Two - those whom (usually inadvertently) extend him an advantage; Three - chemistry, body parts, and ash. Okay, that's clearly in excess of three things. So, sue me.

I'm the one bloke in London desperate enough to share a flat with this barking mad boffin bastard, and people still can't remember my goddamned name.

John. My name is _John._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short, again - another case of word vomit - type it, post it, don't look back

**John**

The bastard exposed me - a war vet, invalided soldier, _and flatmate_ _with PTSD_ -with an effing chemical weapon. Sherlock's a bona fide fuck weasel. He sat back and waited, watching a live video feed of my reaction. The delusions were so real it was fucking terrifying. I have nightmares where glowing mutant dogs savage Afghani women and children. I'm certain Sherlock hears my carryings on in the wee hours, the thump as I spill off the bed. However, Sherlock, wanker that he is, seldom concerns himself over sentiment. His bloody _experiments_ are more important than people. For science, my arse! I'm shocked he didn't pack up a picnic in case he got peckish. 

It's clear to me now that I am less colleague than convenience, a serviceable easy-access lab rat. I'm not sure why I never questioned Sherlock's call for a flatshare. He's obviously well-heeled, going on his collection of clothing. The wanker needed easy prey, not extra rent money.

I imagine I asked for it, really. Being poisoned by that maniac is textbook karma, more or less. It's true! I knew perfectly well what sort of berk Sherlock Holmes was two full days before I'd fled the bedsit. It's funny what they say, that karma's a bitch. Or, not so funny, that. It depends.

See, I trusted Sherlock, Christ knows why, to spare me from his devilment. This being not from caring, mind, but for the common courtesy due one's flatmate. Yes, well...feel free to laugh at my expense. I'm amusingly and hopelessly naive when it comes to him. 

* _ahem*_

Shall I go on? Insanity, cautions Albert Einstein, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Wise words, indeed. I'll wager he never kept heads in the fridge. 

It clear that I'm as mad as a hatter.

I'm the moth to Sherlock's flame, one of many carefully preserved specimens in his collection. 

_"Afghanistan,"_ said he, _"or, Iraq?"_

He burns so, so brightly. I've been struck blind.

**Greg**

Christ, what a bloody mishap. The stupid git's really done it now, hasn't he? I can't possibly fix it this time, not that I'd imagine him asking. Like he would, Sherlock, always so proud, never showing a single hint of weakness. I dragged him arse over tit time and time again out of Vauxhall Arches whilst. He deleted that, probably, I would, if I could. He acted as if his drug addiction was all a lark, and not killing him. Hell, he came so close to overdoing it, a very close thing. And then, as if by design, John came into his life. He seemed a like miracle, a man in natty jumpers wearing a smile that made a lesser bloke think twice.

It's like this. Firstly, I am, in point of fact, a good detective. Himself swans about, _*snort*_ prances, more's like, as if he's God's gift to Scotland Yard. I won't deny it, Sherlock's assistance is a crucial with the tougher investigations. Donavan be damned, we need his incredible brain. Christ, it's not as if speed dial. I have him on speed dial, or...What of it? Shut your gob. You lot can keep your petty grievances to yourselves.

Wankers. Suck it up, or get out of the game.

Christ, where was I. Oh - right. I _am_ a good detective. I earned my promotion fair and square, not like some. I'm especially clever with sussing out lies from the truth. Call it intuition or simply years of practice, I know when a person is lying. The ability gives me an edge, mostly. My ex wasn't so fond of the skill. Still, it helps me solve murders. I help people. I hope it helps me be a better friend.

I want to be that good friend to John Watson. He deserves it, poor sod. His life hasn't been all sunshine and roses. He gave up a lot to serve our country, but then that's John, for you; Queen and country in a nutshell. He got shot, rumour tells he nearly carked it. There he was, career finished, dead in the water living in some shite bedsit. It was enough to put my mate close to the edge. Not that he'd own up to it, mind. I've been there myself, though - I recognise the signs. 

That first night I judged John to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic, him putting up with Sherlock's...eccentricities. Eyeballs in the microwave? Cocaine? hell. He should have run screaming in the other direction. In spite of his...himself, Sherlock earned a flatshare with the doctor. He somehow achieved it without John killing him.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

John and I meet up every so often to take in a bit of footie, maybe have a pint. Honestly, we don't get together often as I like, now that I'm single. Still, it's not exactly a shocker Sherlock doesn't share his toys.

John's not much of a talker; not much of a drinker, either. His tosspot of a sister saw to that. Despite that, he harbours a strange devotion to this pub on Marylebone and Gloucester. I'm not keen on the establishment, to put it delicately. The ceiling's too low and the floor is nauseatingly sticky. The barman's teeth are disturbingly black and oddly sharp. The creepy bastard reeks of mothballs and a pinch of turpentine See my point? My hatred of John's dive is justified.

And yet a mate - a proper mate - goes to uncomfortable lengths whilst lending a hand. At least, I do. This ought explain my ludicrous affinity for Sherlock. Tonight's travails include keeping mum whilst John drinks himself pissed whilst I hang tight and nurse a pint. The sad fact is that I need the truth before John ends up throwing himself in the Thames.

The man's ostensibly British, meaning the git's as tight as a clam. John prefers to keep his own counsel. There at Baskerville and that shit show after the mine field - _BOOM!_ Poor sod hasn't been right that night. Honestly, I'm on a knife's edge, disturbed, more's like. John's an ex-army captain, an perfectly solid bloke. He's the even keel navigating the tempest known as Sherlock Holmes. The poor doctor also was invalided out and struggles with nightmares. He's been diagnosed as suffering PTSD.

John's gone downhill from there, but being the stubborn arse that he is, he won't admit there's a problem. Watson, he drives me mental. Why, you ask? Why be worried, if John's so bloody steady as all that? Because, thank you very much, after finishing up Dimmock's Chinese smuggler's case, John fell off his trolley on bottom shelf scotch. Before his speech turned unintelligible he told me stories that would turn your hair white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World's record beginning to posting rate - 42 minutes. Blech.


	6. Chapter 6

**Mrs. Hudson**

Oh dear, you know how Sherlock is, everyone's an idiot. Myself, I'm not bothered overmuch, I know he cares for me. He's sweet when we're alone, although half the time he's wheedling me out of biscuits. I feel for Sherlock, his being an odd duck and all. Before John came, the man didn't have anyone who understood him. I can't imagine how horrid it was growing up with that brain, and nobody to turn to but his brother. That one's as warm as a reptile. 

The vile man only visits Sherlock when he wants something. I think it's terribly cruel of him. 

If not for John, something awful would have happened - Sherlock would have let it happen. He cares so little for his own self, he'd risk anything not to be bored. 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

**Greg**

Right. Something's definitely off between those two. I mean, _off_ off. It's terrifying, that. They're a slow-motion train wreck and it's beyond me as to what to do. It's got me pacing the floor most nights.

Sherlock's fitful at the best of times...eh...I'm not sure the git has a choice. He's such a bloody prick people are too turned off to question why. I've suspected for some time that Sherlock had an...issue. I'm happy John was man enough to confirm Sherlock's autism. No, that no quite it, it's called Asperger's, what he's got. It explains everything, why Sherlock's hopeless with other people. I feel for the nutter, I really do. 

I've a bad feeling in my belly to where I'm debating calling Mycroft. The man's a royal twat, and I hate dealing with him; still he's the only person besides John and I who Sherlock has.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

**John**

When did my life become this cock-up? Time was bad after the army, if not for bumping into Mike - Fuck, there's no sense in going there. I have done, recently; at certain times, off and on, as if so desperate to shed this darkness I'll risk staring at the sun. When did death become my beacon, instead of him?

I've been a fool. Sherlock's right, I am an idiot. I've turned reality into fiction, as if blogging were a magic trick. I see clearly now. I faced death nearly every day for three sodding years with a smile on my face. Cheating death made every breath that much sweeter.

I'd have made major by now, I know it. I'd be essential to the overall cause, not this...empty shell of a person.

Not this, I can't be this _thing_ anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**John**

It's hardly _my_ fault the traffic light changed when it did; yet, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? Greg near to half-strangled me dragging my arse back onto the kerb; the detective's tough as old boots for his age. Greg held me fast, I choking on lies till he shook stupid me like a wayward child. I'm an idiot. I know that he knows, or at least harbours strong suspicions. He's always like that, is Greg - keen on public safety. 

Well, shit.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

**Sherlock**

Graham's an idiot. When John swears by his words, I unequivocally believe him. He makes for a dreadful liar, besides, he's virtually transparent to a man such as I. No, my flatmate's perfectly fine. He's safe as houses.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

**Greg**

Damn the poncy bastard, I'm _not_ in fact a moron. I was right _there_ , for Christ's sake. _T_ _his_ , mate, was no accident. No, seriously. It was as far from a "whoops" as chalk and cheese.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm fairly sure the jig is up. It's far past time I left the city. My apologies, Molly and Greg, for foisting his Nibs back into your care. If nothing else, if something goes wrong, then call Mycroft. He'll know what to do. He always has.


	9. Chapter 9

**John**

I bin my my mobile at Speedy's the second I lock the front door. Sherlock is intolerably nosy. He's no respect for my privacy. For him, the term "personal boundaries" has no meaning. He's forever poking into my business, the wanker. The berk's a genius. I've no hope of I've no clue as to why, really. I'm quite humdrum in personality and either in the flat watching him sulk, at the surgery losing my mind, or trailing dog-like is his wake whilst knee-deep in gore.

He deleted the entire the solar system to clear his mind of "senseless clutter". He makes no sense.

Wanker.

He's shameless. Sherlock reads my email, examines my bills, tails me when I need air.

Within the week of accepting the flatshare he'd advanced to rummaging through contents of my sock drawer. He sorts then by weave, colour, and length as a rule despite my protestations. It's incredibly annoying, and something of a childish power struggle. 

Once, I took one of each pair simply to see his reaction. I crawled home after a last minute double shift to see the drawer exactly as it was before; the bastard broke into my work locker.

All told, I'm a plain man, I'm nothing to look at, barely above average in intelligence. I've been adopted as a personal plaything, a toy

Sherlock Holmes never shares his toys.


	10. Chapter 10

**John**

My only objective is to straight away leave the city. Mark you, I know I've gone weak. I ought question his attitude, his narcissistic assumptions. I'd rather single-handedly fight a band of insurgents.

Completely knackered at this point, I've lost track of where I am. What street is this? No matter, I can't be arsed to care. As long as it's _away._ My feet hurt. I'm tired of hoofing it through backstreets deprived of CCTV surveillance. I hail a taxi and quibble with the cabbie. _I've a hankering to see the White Cliffs of Dover._ I shove 600 quid in his face, tempted to stuff it in his gob. The arse counts it, smiles, and revs the engine. I've surrendered the sum total of my bank account, but dare I repeat myself, no great matter. I won't be in need of funds soon.

I'm so tired.

**Mycroft**

Blast it, Sherlock, as if I've endless reams of time available to track his wayward doctor. I put a team on him early, best be safe rather than sorry; still, the situation distracts me from my work. 

**Greg**

Blast Sherlock, the bloody twat. I call, cursing the rising tally of rings. When so suited, Sherlock prefers to hide his head up his arse. I wait, hoping; but, no. No callback, no initialled text. Twenty minutes in and I'm in a panda car hitting the lights.

Fine, he wants to be an arse? He'd rather make-believe that John's perfectly fine and not a hair's breadth from blowing his brains out? Not on my watch, Sherlock. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a note, revised John's travel plans in the last chapter.

**John**

The cabbie pokes me awake, rich cocoa brown skin disturbingly yellowed from the car's interior light. He's oldish and clearly exhausted. His voice points to decades of tobacco use. "Waterloo Crescent, as agreed." It's a toss-up as to which part of the bloke appears more jaundiced...skin or the stains on his teeth. I wonder if he'll head back into London, or simply kip in the taxi.

I look about, eyes bleary and crusted over. I may or may not have wept in my sleep. It's an awkward roll from the back seat to my feet. It's silent, here in the dark, and the cracking of my knees sound like gunshots. 

Here, at the trailhead to the White Cliffs of Dover. I've no torch, and it's the new moon. No matter, it's not the iconic scenery that interests me.


	12. Chapter 12

**Mycroft**

Well, my brother's finally presenting signs of compunction upon committing this most grievous error in judgement. As usual, my inconsiderate and juvenile sibling deleted my counsel, dismissed his principal onus, and thus by extension, duty of care for this excruciatingly undervalued individual. My superior intelligence juxtaposes Sherlock's; ergo, my convictions on the matter are indisputable. It is a peculiar fact, yet true, that my brother assumed guardianship the second he interfered in John's life. Sherlock turned a blind eye rather than accept the truth, and now, tragically, John is...what he is. Quite appalling behaviour, little brother. Mummy would be most put out if someone, say a close relative _*cough*_ was to inform her.

I'm galled to confess I've a fondness for the little man, a profound admiration for his constant commitment to my brother's welfare. His fortitude surprised me throughout our introductory tête-à-tête. I imagine you've already grasped how extremely rarely my world-view is knocked askew, but there it is. 

John's a master of duplicity, a wolf in sheep's clothing, if you like. He's a ferocious man of war doomed to a life of relative peace. Poor sod, little wonder he's become his own worst enemy. 

I do hope my men arrive in time.

**Sherlock**

It ought not be possible to fall so short of my intellect. How _(and why)_ did this happen? I, failing to observe what those of mediocre intellect deduced within seconds. Now, my dear friend - best friend - is primed for self-destruction. He's a 10 kilo bomb without an off-switch, and I've only myself with whom to blame. 

_Please, John. Please come back. I'll do better this time, I promise._


End file.
